


on the bright side of the bed

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 09:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3524150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a hospital stay for Greg to realise how Mycroft feels about him. </p><p>Prompt: things you said when you thought I was asleep</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the bright side of the bed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this tumblr meme](http://ivefoundmygoldfish.tumblr.com/post/113224914583/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a).

Greg’s never been a fan of hospital stays, and he never will be, but he has to admit, private rooms make the experience a lot more bearable. And so he’s thankful to Mycroft for pulling some strings to make it possible (although he suspects Mycroft had something to do with the doctor’s decision to keep him overnight for observation), but he really could do without the restless pacing going on at the foot of his bed.

“Honestly, Mycroft. What are you still doing here? Surely the world needs saving or something.” Greg tries to change positions to get a better view of Mycroft, but his body protests and he sinks back into the hospital bed with a loud groan that escapes before he can suppress it.

Mycroft rushes to his side.  

“Gregory, you are in hospital with a fractured rib and a mild concussion, both of which you acquired while chasing after my wayward brother. As Sherlock is occupied with tying up the loose ends of the case, it is my responsibility to ensure that you recover to full health as soon as possible, so for goodness’ sake, _stop moving around._ ”

“I—”

“And might I add—what the bloody hell were you thinking, barging in there recklessly without a thought for your own safety? You could have died!”

Greg blinks.

Responsibility, Mycroft had said earlier. That makes sense—especially for an influential man like Mycroft. What doesn’t make sense, however, is Mycroft’s emotional outburst.

It’s almost as if he… cares. Cares about Gregory Lestrade, the person, not just DI Lestrade, his younger brother’s liaison at the Met and, as Sherlock calls it, Sherlock’s part-time handler.

And God help him, but he’s not quite sure what to do with this new information. His concussion isn’t helping either. He needs time—time to consider the possibility, and time to re-evaluate his own regard towards Mycroft.

At least he still has his sense of humour intact, Greg thinks, as he decides on a neutral, light-hearted response.

“If you saw all that, did you see how I knocked the bloke out with a killer right hook? Looks like I still have the magic touch.” He chuckles softly, taking extra care not to make any sudden or strenuous movements that might send searing jolts of pain up his side again. 

Mycroft sighs, exasperated. “You, Gregory, are incorrigible.”

“And you, Mycroft,” Greg says, mimicking Mycroft, “need some rest.” Greg vaguely remembers thinking that Mycroft looked more tired than usual when he showed up, but now that he’s standing by his bed, the signs are obvious: rumpled suit, loosened tie, dishevelled hair, and huge eye bags. Aside from the eye bags and what the signs indicate about Mycroft’s wellbeing, Greg finds himself thinking it’s a rather fetching look on Mycroft. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Before midnight.”

Greg snorts. “Midnight from the day before yesterday, I’ll wager.”

Mycroft remains silent.

“That’s what I thought.” He grins victoriously, and the look on Mycroft’s face tells him that Mycroft knows when he’s been beaten. “So, I believe you were going to get some rest?”

“Very well. I shall leave after you have fallen asleep.”

“Deal. Now grab yourself a chair and sit next to me. And no more pacing. It’s enough to drive a man mad.”

Given the day’s events and his injuries, it’s no surprise that Greg’s body eagerly welcomes the prospect of sleep. He can feel his eyelids grow heavy, and his breathing evens out until it becomes slow and steady.

He’s drifting in and out of consciousness when he hears it.

“If only you knew how much I care for you.”

 

* * *

 

He wakes up feeling groggy and sore, and vaguely aware that he should pay a visit to the loo soon. But Mycroft is still at his bedside, sleeping, with one of his hands enveloping Greg’s.

And upon noticing that, his head clears up enough to piece together what happened yesterday and this morning. Greg realises it all points to one thing, one thing so glaringly obvious that he can’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before: _Mycroft cares for me just as much as I care for him._

Greg moves his free hand to rest on top of Mycroft’s, smiling as widely as he can without his dry lips cracking.   

Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to stay in bed for a little longer. 


End file.
